Farewell, My Friend

The writing community lost a talented and good friend early Saturday morning when AJ (Bill) Hayes passed away. AJ was a huge presence in the online crime fiction world, contributing stories and poetry, editing, and offering support to other writers. I was fortunate enough to have spent time with him in person on several occasions, most notably at LA’s Noir at the Bar. He and his wife, Thury, drove up from the San Diego area for nearly every one of them, and AJ’s participation in this event, both as a reader and a member of the audience, was always something I looked forward to.

I can see his friendly eyes and big smile as I write this. AJ had a wonderful way about him—he just always seemed so happy to see you.

The first time I heard AJ read his work aloud was at an event in 2011 that Eric Beetner asked us to participate in. AJ (accompanied by Thury, of course), Eric, Josh Stallings, Stephen Blackmoore, and I met up at LA’s Greystone Mansion, to read our stories as part of an art installation. 

Greystone Mansion itself has an ominous history; Edward Doheny (a well known name in Los Angeles) gave the parcel of land it sits on to his son, Ned, and his new bride, Lucy, as a wedding gift in 1926. Construction on the palatial home began in February 1927, and the family moved in to the residence in September 1928. Five months later, Ned Doheny was found shot to death inside his bedroom at the age of 36, the victim of an apparent murder-suicide committed by his longtime friend and employee, Hugh Plunket.

That's the "official" story, at least. But no one seems to know what really happened in that room on February 16, 1929.

Various other art installations were presented throughout the house, but the group of us got the best location: the room where the murder took place. It was empty of furniture (except for a toppled over chair strategically placed to mimic the one found at the crime scene) and we all stood around or perched ourselves on the window sills, listening to each other read our stories while a film based on a Raymond Chandler novel that referenced the murder played on a silent loop, projected onto one of the walls. Attendees wandered in and out, some pausing for awhile to listen, while others just poked their heads in. It was the oddest event I’m ever likely to attend, but the location, the circumstances, and most importantly, the company made it one I'll never forget.

When AJ stepped up to the microphone and began to read, I thought, "Wow, this guy can write." The images he provoked were powerful and his words were unflinching. Beyond that happy smile and his unfailing support, that's what I'll remember about AJ Hayes. The guy could write.

RIP, AJ. It was a pleasure knowing you.

~Holly

Select Stories & Poetry by AJ Hayes:

Chekhov's Rules
Ropes Over the Rafters (A Whoville Story)
Age, Serenity, and Mick-Fucking-Jagger
Dark Genesis